And Our Memories are but Missed Moments
by SacredAir
Summary: After all, missed moments exist only to be made up for. Tiva. Tag to 'Rule 51'. Now marked as complete!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay, so I've finished all my exams, and have some extra time before going on holiday. This was just a little fic begging to be written (because I'm sure I'm not the only one who had to make up a scene where Tony and Ziva are re-united after his return from Mexico). So it picks up a couple of days from where the Season 7 finale left off. Hope you're all having a wonderful summer!**

**It'll be a quick fic, no more than two or three chapters at most :) **

**Enjoy! Please tell me your thoughts on it.**

He'd left her a voicemail, you know.

To tell her that he couldn't come to her citizenship ceremony.

It was the least he could've done.

The most would have been to _not_ miss it, _obviously_.

He's surprised that there are so few people in the airport; during the summer months it's usually brimming with tourists and families finally getting away from the bustle and stress of everyday life and jetting off to L.A or Spain or some other predetermined destination. He, on the other hand, lets out a contented sigh as he exits the terminal hails a cab. Home is where the heart is. And his heart – and mind – had definitely _not_ been in Mexico.

When he had informed the director of his encounter with Mike Franks, his superior had instructed him to return to DC immediately – Franks' involvement called for more _secure _measures to be put into place whilst shadowing Riviera. Truthfully, a small part of him still felt insulted at the insinuation that he wasn't capable of handling the assignment with the new developments, but he hadn't been about to complain at the fact that he was able to go home.

As the taxi pulls away, he runs a hand through his hair – back and forth, back and forth – attempting to rub out the headache that seems to have clamped itself around his scalp during the flight. He catches a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror. Non-smiling green eyes glare back at him, matching a mouth that's twisted determinedly downwards, and for a moment he doesn't recognise himself – since when did he look so tortured and pained?

_Oh, wait_. He'd seen that look on his face before.

It was the 'Ziva-is-probably suffering-because-of-me' look.

Well, hell.

He grunts in frustration and the taxi driver shifts forward slightly in his seat. Only then does he realise that what seemed like a small noise at the back of his throat may have actually been a fully-fledged growl. And between that and the fact that he looks like – well, crap– he couldn't blame the guy from feeling uncomfortable.

The leather head rest is soft, and he rests the back of his head against it, the headache easing slightly as his neck tilts backwards.

How had it gone?

What had she been wearing?

She'd probably looked radiant.

Huh.

A lump begins to form and throb in his throat, and as frustrating as it is – 'cause it's been forever since he's felt so _upset -_ it's only natural, 'cause he's screwed this up _so_ bad.

'_I trusted my brother.'_

'_I trusted Michael.'_

'_I could not afford to trust you.'_

'_You have always had my back.'_

He'd failed her. She'd invested in him, and he'd let her down.

He'd broken a promise.

She'd been right, after all. She couldn't afford to trust him.

Just how many times had he let her down, exactly? He tries not to think _Jenny_, or of _Somalia_ and _Rivkin_, or of '_I'm tired of pretending'_.

There. That's the reason he feels so damn disgusted of himself, really. And he just can't afford to lose more precious time with this woman- too much had already been lost, so he taps the driver on the shoulder and gives him Ziva's address.

After all, missed moments exist only to be made up for.

**Reviews are very much appreciated; I would love to know any opinions you have. Also feel free to tell me your thoughts on the finale! :) **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So here is chapter two. Thank you all so much for your kind reviews and thoughts on the finale.**

**Important Note:**** There is still one more chapter to come – however, I am going away on holiday this Sunday, which means I'll have no access to a computer (yes, I'm going to go mad). Therefore it is very unlikely that I will be able to update again before mid July – I will try my hardest to get chapter three ready by Saturday – but I'm going to be very busy, so I'm not sure Ill be able to get it finished. Fingers-crossed though!**

**I'm thinking that if this scenario was ever played out/covered in season eight, that we'd actually see Tony struggling more negatively about having missed Ziva's ceremony than Ziva herself – due to feeling guilty, and feeling like he's let her down. Anyway, my take on what would happen is below!**

**Enjoy, and let me know what you think :) **

Thirty-four steps lead him to the floor on which Ziva's apartment is situated – and it's thirty-three times that he entertains the cowardly notion of turning on his heel and sprinting back out the building – avoiding what would most likely be a disastrous discussion ending in either tears, injury, or death.

On step thirty four he figures he should just stop being such a lame-ass dickhead and get on with it because he owes her an apology and that's not going to change.

Her front door feels warm as he raps his knuckles – once, twice, thrice – against it – and in his anxious state he deliriously ponders if all front doors are that temperature and if so why has nobody noticed it before. The seconds tick by as he attempts to rationalise the idea of installing some kind of cooling system in the wood to refresh your hands in the summer – anything to distract him from the fact that no tell-tale shuffling can be heard coming from the inside of the apartment.

Awww, _shit_.

It would be just his luck that she's out at - like - eleven in the evening at the very moment he absolutely _needs_ to see her, you know. He glances at his watch nervously. Eleven nineteen, to be precise.

Since when did _Ziva_ go out at such a late hour on a work night, anyway?

This thought spurs the formation of a slippery slope of dangerously frustrating theories inside his brain. Ones along the lines of – '_She's out drowning her sorrows in a nearby club, bitterly celebrating her citizenship alone' _or _'she's getting hit on by some drunken jackass'_ and – oh God! – _'she's with a guy. Shit, she's on a date, with a guy.'_

Or_ maybe –_ says a little voice inside his head (one which sounds uncannily like Gibbs' – though he'll never admit it out loud) – _maybe she's just asleep, you fool._

For the sake of his sanity (hearing Gibbs inside his head is decidedly _not _a good sign), he decides that Ziva _must _be in the apartment, lying haphazardly on her bed and emitting snores that could rival the sound of a foghorn. So he knocks again – this time six times – barely holding back the urge to shout her name in the hopes that she might hear him.

He holds his breath, and for a second he hears nothing.

Thump-_thump._

Relief floods though him –so she was there, after all and now he's terrified, because he hasn't thought of what to say, really. But then he remembers that he hasn't seen her in over _three days_, and he forgets about the words and just focuses on the image of her opening the door, unruly curls framing her face – that _beautiful _look of confusion in her sleepy eyes- eyebrows knitting together and lips pouting in that manner that just makes him want to _hug_ her to him-

And suddenly the door opens and she's there before him, hair dryer in one hand, a look of genuine surprise on her face. The tips of her hair are still wet, leaving mottled marks on her top and her curls have gone fuzzy in the heat but she looks so breathtaking that he just stares and stares and stares.

He should probably say something right about now, though.

'You're American now.'

_Jesus Christ. _Talk about verbal diarrhoea.

Liquid brown eyes shimmer with something akin to happiness and he can't help but think how terribly _wrong _it all is - that she can look at him so affectionately when he's just betrayed her and broken a promise that she had been looking forward to seeing fulfilled _so much – _'cause yeah, he still remembers how her face lit up with a radiant smile when he'd first made it.

He had expected her to be furious. To glare fiercely, eyes glinting with hatred, mouth twisted into a snarl. To punch him in the gut. To break his nose.

What he gets, though – as soon as he steps hesitantly into the front room and drops his bags – is a small Ziva-bundle ramming into him and attaching herself to his torso, her face pressed against his sternum with so much force that he can actually feel her grinning against his chest.

He finds his arms have come up instinctively around her small frame – the fingers on one hand ensnaring errant curls and his other arm wrapping around the small of her back. They stand like that for what seems like ages, but eventually he prises himself from her grip a little.

The longer she is pressed up against him - smiling for him, calm and content - the more he feels like he wants to cry.

'Ziva, I'm so, so _sorry_,' he manages to choke out. A momentary look of surprise on her face is quickly smoothed away, and slender hands reach up to cup his face. Her expression is clear and she smiles again, the pads of her thumbs rubbing against his cheekbones.

'It is okay, Tony, really. You couldn't have known Vance would send you away,' her eyes light up again with a tenderness that makes his heart melt. 'I am so glad you've returned in one piece,' she whispers. It's kinda weird in a way, seeing as that exact same thought runs through his head just about every single time he's laid eyes on her since last summer.

_Last summer._

All this kindness she's directing towards him – a tenderness that should absolutely _not be happening – _is making him feel worse and worse and it is like there's a spring in his chest that is dying to snap and release ugly emotions and tears and curses.

Because if he thinks about it, his relationship with her is one based on a handful of missed moments – every single moment pulling them apart until the bond that holds them together is as taut as can be, and then pushing them back together. And he's sick of it, to be honest. Someone – something – is screwing them around and they're not going anywhere. Just moving back and forth, like puppets led to and fro across a pretend stage. They're suffering because nothing is happening. It is always the same.

Pull and _push_, pull and _push_.

No more pulling, please.

Because he loves her so much, so please, no more pulling away.

**Reviews are very much appreciated :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys, **

**I'm so very sorry for the long hiatus – a lot has happened since my last update – the main thing being that I'm now living in Spain for my gap year. In fact, today marks a month since I started living here independently –that is, without my parents. So, the last few weeks have all been about settling down and getting my life sorted out :) I've also, to my despair, not had Microsoft on my laptop until very recently (surviving without it was a challenge!) **

**Anyway, I'm happy to put up the third and last chapter of this story up! I hope you'll enjoy it, please review and tell me your thoughts!**

Truth be told, it takes him a while to register her has started to cry. It's not until soft hands start to rub his back and slender fingers run through his scalp that he realizes. Ziva is pressed flush against him once more, the tip of her nose rubbing slightly against his collarbone, and she slowly begins to sway the both of them back and forth, a controlled motion. And yeah, his back is still heaving erratically and he's lost his grip on his self-control just for a few seconds to allow a few muffled sobs to escape and _it feels good and right_. But fuck, he's crying in front of her and he can't help but think this was not how it was meant to go. She was not meant to feel sorry for him.

The swaying his partner has put in motion continues, it's one of those actions that he's frequently associated as being used by mothers to soothe upset or injured children – and hell, it always seems to work – so he goes along with it – there's no point in holding back anything, 'cause it's not going to do either of them any good. The dam has disintegrated for a reason – who is he to prevent the flood of anger, emotion and loss from cleaning the slate? From being put to rest?

He cries for Kate. For Jenny. For Michelle Lee. For _Last Summer._ For Gibbs. For Shannon. For Kelly.

For _her._

For _'I'm tired of pretending_,' and '_do you believe in soulmates?_' and '_you'd never get it._' For _'couldn't live without you, I guess._' For '_you have always had my back.'_

Because in the end, it all – quite simply – comes down to_ her_.

To five years worth of regrets – regrets that were always known, but never heard.

And she was there to hear them with him.

_Together. Always together._

Ziva pulls away from him, cupping his face in her hands, and he can sense concern flitting across her features when she fails to get his eyes to meet hers.

'Oh, _motek! _This will not do!' she chides gently, pushing him gently so that he sits down on the sofa. His shoulder twinges unpleasantly as he leans back – he had had more than his share of bullet grazes in his life, but each one was still as painful as the last. He hadn't realized until then that it hurt like hell.

Ziva wasn't fooled for a second, observing him wince had alerted her to the fact that he hadn't escaped unharmed, and although he's still too embarrassed/confused/scared to look at her, he notices her grip around his wrist tightens.

Green eyes finally rise to the challenge to meet chocolate-brown ones.

'It's nothing. Just a small graze.'

Her hands relax – and the corner of her mouth twitches just enough to let him know that she's only slightly reassured. She proceeds to pat the rest of him down gently, feeling for any more injuries and looking out for any more grimaces of pain. Seemingly content that he has returned in one piece, she looks him up and down before raising an eyebrow and letting herself fall onto the sofa, next to him.

'You look like a hobo.'

And he can't help the small grin that plays across his face, because she's blatantly trying to cheer him up.

'You know you love it.'

She smirks, but the smile is quickly extinguished as she places her hand on his cheek once again, tracing over his eyebrows, down is jawline and finally running the pad of her thumb lightly down the length of his nose. He chin twitches, and he's been around her long enough to know that it's a sign she's close to crying. He's never had to confort a crying Ziva though – he suspects it could be a difficult job to do, plus he's never liked the thought of her crying, so-

'Are you okay?'

The question is blurted at him – fired like a bullet – throwing him off balance. And to be honest he's more concerned about her feelings at the moment and trying to avoid her getting upset over him – something he's starting to realize he has little control over – so he's not exactly sure how to answer. Because on one hand, there's so much that has to be said for him to be able to fully answer her question, but on the other, the answer will probably scare the crap out of both of them.

Hell, it's one mental dilemma after another, isn't it?

He goes for the neutral (more or less) third option – which is to let himself sink further into the sofa and sigh deeply. A few seconds later the other side of the couch shifts and she's settled in a completely identical position – feet curled underneath her, the side of her head resting against the back of the sofa. Those dark eyes are scrutinizing him once again.

_She's waiting._

He stares back – and she's all liquid eyes and chocolate curls and full red lips and pretty, and _so full of worry._ The thought that pops into his brain is so frightening for a moment he gets the sensation that he's falling fast – because, it can't happen, it' just can't- and they're like a family, the team, always together, there for one another. But they're in the process of inheriting a problem – a curse –one of denial – one that once before ended in death, and solitude. Eternal solitude.

'I don't want to be the next Gibbs and Jenny.'

And Ziva winces in pain – because she knows it's true too, she knows that if nothing is said that so much more is lost, and images of her friend, lying dead in an abandoned diner –blood staining her red hair redder – probably still haunt her in her nightmares. Copious nightmares filled with death and torture and traitors.

Her fingers laces themselves around his, and she smiles ruefully.

'We're already following in their footsteps, aren't we?' she whispers.

'It has to stop.'

'I know.'

His hand releases hers and he tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling. Beside him, his partner leans forward and gently pulls at the collar of his t-shirt to catch a glimpse of the previously discovered injury. Warm fingers slip around the edges of the cotton bandage, owlishly gauging the size and seriousness of the wound. She frowns and looks away, and he's momentarily scared shitless as she balls her fists and brings them down against the sofa cushion repeatedly, letting out a muffled growl.

He's never seen her like this – never seen her lose control in such a childlike way.

'What is it? I mean, it's just so_ stupid_, Tony, because _we know_ what it is, we just don't _do_ anything about it, or – or we try and avoid it – and then _look how we end up!_'

_Mourning. Wishing. Dying. Missing._

Ziva's anger subsides, fists pumping less forcefully into the cushions below. And he can't help but look down at her hands – at the faded, whiter skin of the marks across her wrists, reminders she has unwillingly brought back with her from Hell.

It shouldn't have happened, _dammit_, so he takes her wrist in his hand, quelling the slowing movements and forcing her to cease waving signs of her previous captivity infront of him.

'Missing someone who is dead is _fine_, but when it's someone who I spend every day with, who sits across from me making _silly_ little paper aircraft and aiming them at me – when someone misses a person who is _right in front_ of them, that- that is _not_ acceptable! I want _you_. I don't want to _miss_ you,' she finishes with a sigh.

_He shouldn't be this lucky._

_Shit._

_He doesn't deserve her._

'To answer your question,' he looks at her but shifts his eyes away quickly, because he can't bear to see her eyes brimming with tears. 'I'm not okay.'

She blinks. One tear falls.

'_Shit_, Ziva, I mean all this while I feel like I've been _killing_ you more than _loving _you, you know?'

Silence.

'S'like I'm fucking _programmed_ to constantly put my fucking foot in it when it comes to you. An' then shit happens – you get angry and I get angry and _BAM_! More damage to be repaired. They should have some kind of 'Tony-Ziva' ward in the hospital – just for us, I swear, _Jesus Christ_.'

She still can't speak, and he still can't tear his eyes away from the ceiling.

'Say something, Zi. _Please_.'

No response.

He ends the internal battle raging between the idea of tearing his gaze from the ceiling and not doing so, and his eyes meet warm, wet brown ones. She's the one who avoids his gaze this time, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand frantically as to quickly erase any traces of weakness and vulnerability she feels she has just displayed. It breaks his heart, to see her perform a reflex action as if reprimanding herself for feeling sadness.

He's never seen Ziva cry before – not this much, anyway. It's not something he would like to see ever again.

Wrapping his arms around her he pulls her closer, letting her tears stain his shirt, her cheek resting against the gauze covering his shoulder, and hell, he's thinking it's much more probable that he's hurting because she's crying and not because of the bullet graze. After about five minutes he's made up his mind; seeing his partner crying definitely makes him feel worse rather than better. It's unbearable.

Aw, _shit_. This is getting borderline ridiculous, because he came here to apologize, only to get all tearful, and it's caused her to get upset – the last thing he wanted. He'd hoped the times where he unwittingly upset her were past. Clearly not.

Clearly he's much better at making her cry than making her smile.

He opts for the humorous approach to try and comfort her, because he more or less knows his way around humor and is less likely to fuck anything else up.

'Told ya I was programmed to put my foot in it,' he chuckles bitterly into her hair. What he doesn't expect is her hard slap on the side of his un-injured arm as she pulls away from him, face red, eyes puffy, but composed nonetheless.

'You're an idiot.'

She slaps him again, this time Gibbs – style, and he feels the back of his scalp tingle with the sensation. The look she gives him is severe, and he shrinks away from her, expecting to receive the mother of an ass-kicking, but all she does is poke his cheek.

'What am I going to do with you? You are _such_ a typical man.' Through her tears, her expression is one of mock exasperation.

'Wha?'

He's confused. Women are confusing. Or maybe it's just Ziva.

'You haven't done anything wrong!' She places both hands on the sides of his face and gives him a tearful smile. 'So stop feeling so guilty.'

'You're not upset?'

'No. I….I know how you feel. What you were saying – it's not just you who feels like that.'

He huffs. 'Good, 'cause I hate seeing you upset. And crying. You crying does us both no good at all.'

'Okay.'

'But that's not going to change the fact that we're still one sick couple.'

'I know.'

'Certainly wasn't expecting you to burst into tears when I pretty much told you I loved you and all.'

She looks away and his stomach sinks – he wishes he'd shut his mouth because he always seems to take the humor a little bit too far.

'Aw, hell, Ziva, I'm-'

She pokes him in the stomach. 'Yes, I can understand why that would have alarmed you.' She makes a show of looking him up and down, raising her eyebrows, but finally seeming to come to some sort of conclusion as she burrows up against him, and then –

'I love you too.'

For a moment, he doesn't quite know what to do, really. Jumping up to scream and dance, whilst appealing, would be rather inappropriate – and would probably not impress either Ziva or her neighbours.

A large, Cheshire cat-like grin begins to creep up across his face – and as cheesy as it sounds it's like the sliver that was missing from his heart had made its way back and had made it whole. A sliver given to him by Ziva.

All the tension – the sacrifices, the near losses – perhaps – no, they _were_ – all worth it, if they had led to this.

_Something permanent._

'We have to make it work. This _means something_.'

'No more avoiding?'

She kisses him. And it's just them – him and her, Tony and Ziva. Past, present, and future, and '_it was inevitable'_.

He feels her smile before she pulls away. 'No more avoiding,' she agrees.

And just like that, somewhere in the universe, a flick has switched. He knows that in this instant – this moment that they have used and not discarded – is the only moment that really matters.

This is how it's meant to be.

All is right with the world tonight.

**FIN**


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